


Revenge is Best Served Compliant

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Asphyxiation, Enemas, M/M, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pretty serious dubcon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Voyeurism, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The RED Medic doesn't like being manhandled. But what happens when he is, and the person he needs to teach a lesson is twice his size?</p><p>Well, if you're Medic, and your lover secretly has a heart of gold under all that rage and bloodlust, then you'll get creative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge is Best Served Compliant

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a happy story. It's great if you're into dub-con, but don't come here looking for fun. This is a fic that stands apart from any other TF2 story I may write or post - I prefer my Heavy/Medic to be safe, sane and consensual! But I was in a mood so my girlfriend indulged me and this happened. 
> 
> Also, this is unbeta'd so I apologize for any weird mistakes. Aside from that, Enjoy!

Scout wakes up slowly, his brain coming online after long moments of fighting through the fog that had built up behind his eyes. That's his first warning that something is wrong. He never wakes up slowly, he never does anything slowly. Most of the time he doesn't even breathe slowly, it drives the rest of the guys in his squad nuts. So fighting through a haze of grogginess is unnerving, or would be if he were awake enough to be unnerved.

 

When he does wake up, even before he opens his eyes he's panicking. He can feel the painful prick in his arm where the needle had jabbed him on the battlefield. He'd been too busy avoiding getting slaughtered by a freakin’ heavy to dodge the shot that stabbed him. That's the last thing he remembers before the world went black.

 

And if that weren't freakin’ scary enough he opens his eyes to find himself laying on his stomach on a cold metal table, probably an operating table because who other than a doctor would have something like this lying around? And it’s the Red doctor too, that much is obvious by the fucking red labels on everything he can see, as if things could get any worse. But oh of course, they can. A quick flex of his arms and legs confirms his next fear, he's tied down. Like some kind of mental patient who might try to jump out a window or something if he's left alone for too long.

 

He holds his breath to try and hear something, anything. He hears a light shuffling noise and his head snaps to the side so fast he wrenches his neck. What he sees surprises him - the veteran RED heavy is restrained, as well. He's got shackles around his wrists that could probably fit around the Scout's waist without a problem, fixed to chains that could kill a man if they were dropped from a height, which are welded into mighty hooks on the wall. Scout doesn't even want to know what they're there for, or why a RED is trapped in his own base. He doesn't have time to ask, because a door swings open to his left and he contorts to look.

 

It's the doctor. That German cook with too-sharp teeth and glasses that are probably more for show than purpose. He's holding a syringe of some kind, but stops dead when he makes eye contact with the Scout. "Ah, ze patient is avake," he says, setting the syringe down. "I vas just coming to give you an adrenaline shot to vake you up. How are you feeling? Any numbness?"

 

"What the hell are you doing?" Scout shouts, struggling uselessly against his bonds. He feels a little like a fish, wiggling around on the table. His chances of survival are about as good as a fish out of water too he's pretty sure, eying the needle in the doctor's hand.

 

"Zat doesn't answer my qvestion," the doctor says, approaching the table. "Are ze restraints too tight? Are you getting circulation in your fingers and toes?"

 

Scout flinches away from him, growling, "I feel fine ya sick fuck. What the fuck are you doing? With that thing?"

 

"Nozing, for now," the doctor puts the needle down on a tray that he wheels over, full of shiny and sharp instruments. He picks up a pair of scissors and laughs when the Scout blanches. "Relax. Zis is not for your skin." He pulls off the boy's socks and starts to cut up the back of his pants. "Ze more you sqvirm, ze more likely I am to cut you," he warns when the Scout starts to thrash, and continues cutting when he settles down. He looks up at the giant shackled quietly to the wall with a sickly sweet smile. "Are you comfortable, Misha?"

 

"Dis wrong. Very wrong doktor." The heavy, Misha, rumbles, his head hanging forward onto his chest. "Let boy go. Please."

 

Scout looks back up at the doctor, only to watch a grin spread across his sharp-toothed mouth. "Oh, I know. But zis is vhat you brought upon yourself. I told you not to manhandle me, Petrovich." he spits out his name like a curse. "I can't overpower you. I have to overpower somevone else." he returns his attention to the young man, patting his cheek idly. "It's nozing personal, ja? You were ze closest to me on ze field." he pulls his sliced pants out from under him and starts to cut into his briefs.

 

"Sorry," Misha says, looking up to meet the Scout's wide, terrified eyes. "I did not mean for this to happen."

 

"Keep me the fuck out of your marital problems you fag freaks!" the Scout shouts, struggling harder than before. The doctor's hand is still on him, he can feel it like a brand burning his bared skin.

 

"If you shout too much I _vill_ gag you," the doctor says idly as he pulls Scout's briefs out from under him and starts to cut his way up his shirt. "Ze last sing I need is a headache."

 

"I knew you were a sick creep but this is real fucked up!" Scout continues to shout, desperately hoping someone will hear him somehow. Anyone from his team might be in the RED base, might be passing by.

 

"Not yet it's not," the doctor sings merrily as he pulls the Scout's shirt and last article of clothing out from under him, all of his skin bared to the cold metal of the table. He walks away, his boots loud on the sterile tile of the operating theatre. On his way back into the room, he's followed by the sound of squeaky metal wheels, and the Scout contorts in order to get a look at the device in the doctor's hand. It looks like an IV stand, tall and thin and metal, but the bag hanging off of it isn't clear plastic, but thick red rubber, resembling a hot water bottle, save for the hole in the end that it hangs on the metal hook by. He has a length of clear tubing wrapped over his shoulder and under his arm.

 

Scout visibly pales as the doctor draws nearer. "What the hell are you gonna do with that? Don't come near me ya sicko! Keep that thing the hell away from me! When I get out of here I'm gonna bash your fuckin’ head in if you touch me I swear to god."

 

The doctor is clearly unfazed by the boy's threats as he fastens the clear tubing to the hanging end of the water bottle. "Oh, don't be an infant," he says as he screws it on, and lets the rest of the tube drop. He fiddles with a fixture halfway down the tube until Scout watches water flow from the bottle halfway through the tube, halted by gravity, the other end of the tube held in the doctor's hand. The end bears a long, slender plastic nozzle, which he is meticulously applying vaseline to.

 

"You are NOT doing what I think you're doing!" Scout screams. His body clenches, already trying to fight the assault he's picturing in his head. "You're even more fucked in the head than I thought! You're gonna regret this, I will make you regret this and even if I don't my squad will I'm a pretty big deal over there a'ight? If they find out you did something to me they'll make you pay for it!"

 

"Relax, zis isn't going to hurt," the doctor says. "You may experience some mild cramping, but zat vill cease vhen you void."

 

He presses one wide, strong hand to the small of the writhing Scout's back, holding him in place while he slips the nozzle inside him. He watches with glee when the Scout's mouth falls open and his face screws up with disgust and fear. He keeps sliding the tube in several inches so no amount of wriggling will knock it free, and opens the valve in the middle of the tube.

 

"See, I even varmed up ze vater for you. It should be slightly hotter zan your internal body temperature."

 

"Do not fight." Misha warns from the wall. He's still looking down at the floor, his shoulders slumped and gigantic arms limp in their chains. "Hurts more if you fight. Let it happen and will be over soon."

 

Scout opens his mouth to shout back an angry retort but stops when he feels the water leave the nozzle and start pouring into his body. It's warm, like the doctor said, only a little warmer than the rest of him but it feels like its burning. It keeps coming, more and more filling him past anything he's experienced before and fuck it hurts. It's not mild cramping it's hot and painful in his stomach and he can feel tears in his eyes as he instinctually tries to shift away from the source of the pain.

 

It doesn't help that the doctor is petting his back and shushing him like a lamb. He can't even fight him, he's too preoccupied with the pressure building inside him. "You can elevate your hips if ze pressure becomes too much," the doctor suggests, and as much as Scout doesn't want to obey him, if it's to lessen his own discomfort, he'll pretend he came up with the idea.

 

"Hygiene is very important," the doctor mutters to himself as he pulls his long red gloves off and replaces them with much thinner white latex gloves. "You have almost half a liter inside you now. I vill let you void soon." he smiles when Scout cramps so bad that the gurgle is audible from the outside.

 

"Stop it," Scout tries to shout but it comes out as a choked cry. The pressure is building inside him, growing more painful by the second. "Stop it ya creep! Make it stop!"

 

The doctor fondles the bag before muttering something in German with a nod, and closes the valve. He lifts the tube so that all the water on the opposite side of the valve slides into Scout, and then carefully pulls the nozzle out. To the boy's surprise and dismay, it's replaced by a plug, not much wider than a thumb, but enough to keep him from relieving the pressure. "Zat stays in for one minute, and zen you can release."

 

"I hate you," Scout growls, shifting as much as he can to try to find some relief from the awful cramps. "Gonna kill you. Bash your head in until no one will even be able to recognize it as a human head it'll look like a fuckin’ ugly bag of tomatoes got run over by a truck by the time I'm done with you."

  
"I vasn't kidding about gagging you," the doctor says idly as he lifts the syringe again and pushes so a small jet of liquid arcs out and lands on the boy's cheek. He grabs the Scout's forearm and jabs the needle quite unceremoniously into the muscle, grinning when Scout yelps like a dog and tries to pull away. He slips the needle out and flicks the skin to get the liquid to spread, while he goes and fetches a bucket for the Scout to release into.

 

"What was that!?" Scout demands, lifting his head to try to follow the doctor's movements. "What the hell did you just put in me! Where are you going get back here and answer me! Don't jsut walk away from me!"

 

On the wall the heavy shook his head. "You vill make him mad. He’ll hurt you more. Be quiet and maybe you will live."

 

"Shut up fat ass. This is your fucking fault anyway!" Scout snaps back. He doesn't know the exact details of why it's the heavy's fault, but he knows it's his fault.

 

"It vas a mixture of oxytocin, dopamine and norepinephrine, which togezer form ze chemical phenylethylamine," the doctor says conversationally as he brings over and sets up a sterile bin behind the Scout.

 

“What?!” the distracted scout shouts.

 

“You asked vhat it vas,” the doctor says.

 

"What the - in english!"

 

But then the plug is gone, and the Scout undergoes one of the singularly most unpleasent - not to mention humiliating - experiences of his life. He definitely doesn't tear up and he definitely doesn't whimper so shut up. He fists the edge of the table and his toes curl and he gags at the sensation. When nothing else leaves him, the doctor takes away the bin, and he sags onto the table, exhausted and shaking with embarrassment.

 

The doctor returns a moment later with a big clear pill, but Scout clamps his jaw shut. "To answer your question," he smirks. "Vhat I injected you vith is a _love drug._ "

 

"You're a twisted sick fucker," Scout growls through tightly clenched teeth. But now that the cramping is over he can feel it. There's a warmth spreading through him, making his skin prickle unpleasantly. It's like his whole body is starting to itch and he needs someone to touch him to sooth away the feeling. He wriggles on the table, hoping friction will help but he can't move enough to have any kind of satisfaction.

 

The doctor doesn't try to put the pill in Scout's mouth - but that's when he feels it pushed _inside him._ The doctor laughs when Scout yelps again. "It's just a suppository, relax," he says gleefully. "It vill melt and relax ze muscles inside you so you open up easily."

  
Scout doesn't even bother with a retort. The itch it getting worse. His skin is starting to crawl and he can feel sweat on the nape of his neck. He needs to touch himself, to touch anywhere he can reach to try to sooth away the growing need. Just a touch, any touch will do it, he just needs to feel something on his skin.

 

The doctor pulls off his latex gloves and discards them, and then bare palms are on Scout's naked back. "How do you feel?" he asks, his voice sugary as he slides his palms down the length of Scout's back, stopping just shy of his bottom and then sliding back up.

 

Scout shivers under his hand and tries to buck up, already desperate for more contact. This is so, so wrong, he knows that. He's going to hate himself when this is over and he will find and kill this damn psychopath but right now he needs that hand. He needs the doctor to keep touching him because he knows that hand can bring him relief.

 

"Go fuck yourself," he spits, the words having significantly less bite than he intended. Even to his own ears he sounds pathetic.

 

"Zat is not ze plan," the doctor drawls, sliding his palms down Scout's back again, grinning when he arches into it this time like a cat. "You are so lithe. Very fit. It is not surprising zey made you a Scout. Do you excersize outside of your running, or did you gain zis physique during ze war?" he shoots a glance over at Misha, a devilish little smile curling his lips as he praises his captive.

 

"I've always looked this good," Scout answers, panting. The doctor's hands stop short of his ass again and he can't help but whine. He needs to be touched, needs to be grabbed and spread and fuck, no he can't think like that. But he's so hard it hurts and those hands feel so damn good.

 

"You make point." Misha says, snapping Scout out of his haze. He'd forgotten the the heavy was there. "I will not touch you again. Let boy go, doktor."

 

"A punishment does not vork if you stop halfway. Ze lesson is not taught completely. How vill I ever expect you to respect me if you do not see zat I follow through vith my threats and promises?" the doctor says mildly, filling his hands with the boy's bare ass cheeks and spreading them to inspect the way the suppository is doing its job, loosening and relaxing his muscles.

 

Misha shakes his head sadly, "Doktor please. I am sorry. I made mistake I will not make again. Dis not right way to punish."

 

"Vell I can't punish you directly, you boar," the doctor spits. "Zis is vhat I can do. A lesson half-taught is not learned at all, so pay attention." He carefully massages his middle finger into the Scout's hole, smiling when it opens up easily for him, and he slides one long finger inside. The Scout bucks back with a yowl, so he starts to twist his wrist, filling the boy over and over with the length of his finger. "You see Misha, he is not in pain. You can relax."

 

"He does not want you." Misha mumbles sadly. "Drugs do not make him want you, Erik. Just make him want. Broom would do as good as cock."

 

Scout yelps when the finger leaves him suddenly and cranes his head after the only source of his release, watching him approach the shackled beheamoth. To his shock, despite the fact that the heavy is at least twice the size of the doctor, he cowers away from the approaching man.

 

"Vhat did I tell you about calling me in ze operating theatre?!" the doctor, Erik, howls, and smacks Misha across the face with the back of his hand. His shoulders are back and his chin elevated, drawn up to his full height, staring down his nose at the much larger, yet submissive man.

 

"Not operating." the heavy says, shrinking away from the doctor as much as possible. "Sorry. I am sorry. It was accident. Please."

 

Erik holds his hand up to the giant man's face, and folds down every finger except for his middle finger - the one that had just been inside the Scout.

 

"Suck."

 

"Doktor - "

 

" _Suck._ "

 

Misha sighs but obediently opens his mouth, taking the digit inside. He closes his lips around the base and sucks as commanded, swirling his tongue around the finger bad and coating the entire thing with saliva.

 

“Good,” the doctor pulls his hand away again and caresses the top of the heavy’s head, his expression almost gentle.

 

He steps over to the table again, where the scout has started to writhe and whimper, and slides the spit-drenched finger inside him, shivering at the wail of pleasure he forces out of the boy.

 

“Tell me,” he says, petting his free hand down the scout’s back. “Vhat is your name?”

 

"Like I'm gonna tell you." Scout tries to snarl. He's panting too heavily though, taking the bite out of his words and pushing back on the finger inside him desperately trying to force it deeper. It isn’t enough, not nearly enough.

 

“Oh come on, now, I need a name to call out don’t I?” the doctor teases, and levers a second finger inside the restless young man, twisting them in a hard circle, corkscrewing them directly into the boy’s prostate with pinpoint accuracy. “I can’t just call you scout. Maybe I’ll call you Little Boy Blu.”

 

Scout crows in sudden pleasure, trying to arch up against the restraints holding him down. He needs more, more more more. His body is on fire and his cock is so hard he's afraid it’s going to give out if he doesn't come soon.

 

"James!" he screams when the doctor hits his prostate again. "Jim, my name is Jim, but call me whatever you want just fuck me!"

 

“James? Really? So dull,” the doctor rolls his eyes. “Alright, _James_ , tell me. Do you really vant me to fuck you?”

 

“What? Yes- fuck!”

 

“No, don’t tell me,” the doctor grabs scout’s head and turns it, holding him flat by the back of the neck so he’s staring directly at the restrained heavy. “Tell _him_. Tell _him_ you want me to fuck you, and I vill. Othervise I will leave you like this.”

 

Jim looks up at the heavy, meeting his sad eyes. If he were a little more in control of his hormones he might notice the tears in his eyes or the broken, defeated expression he wore.

 

But he doesn't. His head is too fogged with need and desperation to notice any of that. Instead he shouts to him, screaming, "I want him to fuck me! I want him to fuck me as hard as he fuckin’ can! I want him to make me come all over this fucking table! I need his cock in my ass fast and hard you hear me! You hear me you big fat idiot I want him to fuck me!"

 

The heavy pulls his knees up as far as he can and wraps his arms around them while the doctor throws his head back with a laugh.

 

“Oh, verdammt, you hear him, Misha? You hear how he sings for you?” he swings his leg over the table and raises himself up onto it like a cat, straddling the scout’s thighs. He presses his hands into the firm muscle of Jim’s ass and spreads it at the cleft, taking careful note of the way his hole flutters open with need.

 

"I hear." Misha answers. "I see too. I see this is wrong. Doktor don't. We will never be same again if you do."

 

Sitting back on his calves, the doctor ignores the restrained heavy as he starts to unbutton his long coat. It will be easier to maneuver without it, anyway. Dressed down to his chocolate waistcoat, crimson tie and cream dress shirt, he looks like a very well-paid professor or a wealthy landowner. He straightens the rolled-up sleeves so they sit on his elbows, and the scout starts to squirm under him again.

 

“I’m getting to you,” he scolds, swatting one hand firmly across the boy’s bottom. Jim keens, thrusting down onto the table in desperation. He needs it now, now.

 

“Vell,” the doctor says, finally addressing Misha. “You are right about zat much. I intend for it to be so.”

 

He opens his fly and the scout under him whines like a cat at the sound. His face splits with a toothy grin when the young man arches back against him in pursuit of his pleasure. The Vaseline jar opens again with a satisfying crack and he applies a generous amount before leaning out over the trapped boy, lining up, and pushing in.

 

It has been quite a long time since he’s experienced the tightness of another – ever since he started his relationship (if it could be called that) with the giant Russian bear, he forwent any real opportunity to take, again. It wasn’t that he was sure the heavy wouldn’t give himself freely if the medic asked, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to try dominating a man so much larger than himself.

 

This boy, this scout, with his slender hips and agile, strong torso and long quaking thighs, he is the treat that the doctor has been missing. He bows his head and rests his forehead between the scout’s shoulder blades, heaving several loud breaths against his spine.

 

Jim tries to press back, trying to get more of the doctor inside him as fast as possible. He hates slow, hates waiting. He's desperate. He's so desperate he's practically drooling, his mouth wide and eyes crazed as he whines beneath the older man.

 

"Come on please, please fuck me don't stop now now now," he whimpers. Having the doctor inside him soothes the ache for a moment but he needs friction, skin on skin, sharp hard thrusts into his tight willing body. He needs to be fucked.

 

The doctor chuckles and kisses the back of the scout’s neck. “You are so impatient, mein kleine.”

 

The liberal application of Vaseline eases the way enormously, as though the scout’s body being so tender and enthusiastic wasn’t enough. The soles of the medic’s boots squeak on the metal table as he braces himself and fucks into the helpless scout.

 

Scout’s cries are loud and unbidden, his hands fisting in their binds, toes curling, cock grinding against the tabletop. His howling is echoing through the theatre, burning into the heavy’s ears. Even if he ducks his head and doesn’t watch the man who was his lover have his way with another, he can still hear the scout’s moans and the doctor’s low panting groans.

 

Misha can almost hear his heart shattering. He never thought Erik would go through with it. But there he is, burying himself in the drugged enemy scout with as much enthusiasm as he used to ride Misha at night in their bed. It makes him sick.

 

“Is it good, schatz?” the doctor asks, purposefully using the pet name he used for his heavy to send another icicle into him. When the scout only responds with a wail of pleasure, he takes that as confirmation to continue.

 

Their skin is loud in the theatre, slapping together, slick and wet and eager. The doctor pockets his spectacles with one hand so he won’t lose them as he leans out over the younger and much smaller man, kissing his neck and grinding into him deep.

 

“Vould you like to roll over?” he offers the scout, slowing down the force of his thrusts so the fog in the younger man’s mind will clear enough for him to answer.

 

"Fuck, yes!" Jim wails. The doctor is too slow now he needs him fast again. He needs to roll over and wrap his legs around the doctor and MAKE him go fast. He's so close, so very very close.

 

He barely understands what he’s consenting to, but he’ll agree to anything to get the doc to put out the fire in him. His hands are refastened over his head while he’s flipped over onto his back, but the doctor takes one second too long admiring the long, lean muscles of the runner, and scout starts writhing and whining again.

 

“Alright, I’m coming,” the medic laughs darkly, shuffling forward on the table and entering the younger man again. He’s surprised by the scout long, powerful legs wrapping around his waist, but certainly isn’t arguing when he uses that as leverage to start fucking _himself_. “Ach, scheisse. How much did I dose you vith?” he pants, bracing the younger man’s hips under his lower back with one hand to help him roll his hips down onto his cock, the other hand braced on the table.

 

"Too much, gave me too much," Jim babbles, clinging to the doctor as best he can. "Gonna die, hurry up and make me come I need to come or my dick is gonna explode and I'm gonna die! I need it doc I need it hurry up fuck me hard I can take it just do it!"

 

“Oh, I’m certain you can take it,” the doctor leans out over the scout again with both hands and braces his feet again. He drives his hips forward with the ferocity of his anger towards the trapped and shaking heavy. His own pleasure will be reaching its peak soon, but he will make the boy come first, on his honor as a doctor.

 

The table shakes under them, the muscles in the scout’s arms bulge as he tugs at the restraints, trying to take hold of the medic and drag him closer, deeper.

 

“Doc, come on, man! Come on, come on, come on!” the doctor wrinkles his nose at the scout’s constant shouting, and presses a hand over his mouth. His moans and whines are muffled by his palm, and then with a smile that would have made the scout queasy with fear had he been lucid, he closes his thumb over his nose, effectively cutting off his air entirely.

 

Jim thrashes under him, trying to get away, trying to get air. He needs to breathe, he needs air. Oh but god the light headedness from the lack of oxygen and the pleasure from being to thoroughly fucked are starting to get to him.

 

His thrashing slows and he starts to moan, eyes slipping closed. His lungs are burning and it hurts but his head is spinning and everything else feels so good, so good.

 

At the sudden cease of the scout’s moans, Misha looks up from his spot near the wall, and his body goes cold when he sees the scout’s loosely shaking limbs, his eyes rolled back into his head, his face going red and blotchy.

 

“You are going to kill him!” he sits up, pulling at his restraints for the first time.

 

“Ja, zat is ze idea. He is ze enemy,” the doctor pants, not looking away from the boy’s face, giving him barely a lungful of air every few seconds through his nose before cutting off his oxygen again.

 

"You vill kill him vhile you fuck him." Misha says, blanching at the thought. "I zought it could not get worse. I vas wrong."

 

“He likes it,” the medic sneers down at the shaking scout. He releases his mouth for a few moments, just long enough for his victim to take a few burning lungfuls before he closes his large hand over the young man’s slender neck. He hopes it will bruise.

 

His free hand closes around the scout’s purpling cock and tugs in tandem with his thrusts roughly. “I know you can still hear me,” he pants, a bead of sweat rolling down his nose and dripping into the young man’s belly button. “I vant you to come for me.”

 

"Yes, yes oh fuck yes!" Jim tries to scream but the words come out as little more than a pained gurgle. He doesn't need to be told twice, in a matter of seconds he's coming hard, covering Erik's hand and his own stomach with his seed. He's never felt such blissful relief in all his life.

 

That's not what makes him black out though. No way. Not being able to breathe makes him black out. Jim is not the kind of guy who passes out from an orgasm. No matter how amazing it was.

 

Erik fucks his limp body for a handful of thrusts, thrilled by his unresponsive body. He holds his shoulders in place so he doesn’t slide away, and finally reaches his completion inside the still boy. He fucks into the scout until the last waves of his pleasure cease, and he sags on top of the younger man.

 

Panting into his neck, he regains his bearings and starts to giggle. He sits up and fixes his hair, pulling out of the unconscious scout and cleaning himself off with a sanitary cloth he’d prepared ahead of time. He cleans the scout as well, wiping his semen from his chest and the come and lubricant from his backside.

 

He looks over at the heavy, a content smirk curling his lips.

 

“Did you enjoy ze show?”

 

Misha shakes his head, too stunned and hurt to cry, as much as he wishes he could. "You made point. Let boy go now. Please. You had your fun. You punish me. It is over."

 

“I vasn’t going to kill him,” the medic says, pulling his signature red gloves back over his hands. “I vould much rather he live with zhis memory.”

 

He releases the scout’s restraints, giving him the freedom to escape when he wakes up, wherever that may land him. He drapes a hospital gown over his body to give him some decency, and give him something to wear during his escape.

 

The chains are heavy, but the medic is able to unhook them from the wall and he drapes them over his shoulders, tugging the heavy to his feet. “Come, now,” he says. “I need a shower.”

 

"You shower. I need rest." Misha says his voice cold and broken, turning away from the doctor and heading to the door. It twists him up to see that smirk on the medic’s face, because he knows he'll be back. Someday, he'll come back to him. He doesn't want to, and he hates himself knowing that he's so weak but he can't help himself.

 

But not today. Not now.

 

 


End file.
